


Another Battle in Our War

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hackers, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Akande wants to use Lúcio’s skills for Talon. Lúcio uses him instead.





	Another Battle in Our War

**Author's Note:**

> A hacker!Lúcio AU for a friend.

****Life within the favela was hard. As a child, Lúcio learned to be aware of his surroundings, to work in groups, to outsmart, outcode others who would hurt him and his. Yet, there was kindness, there was hope, even when they often slept hungry, and the cruelty of the city claimed family and friends. He was happy and proud, as were they all, of the community they had built, poor, yes, but alive. They survived, and it was enough.

Vishkar’s arrival changed things.

The Vishkar building rose as a beacon, beautiful, geometric and clean, a white pinnacle on an otherwise run-down technicolor cityscape of the community it loomed over. The hungry bellies continued, but the labor intensified; Vishkar squeezed and squeezed, weaving lies veiled as pretty, well-worded promises that soothed families into ill-gained, temporary complicity. When the favelados began to resist, the police did not intervene, happy to be rid of the favela that had been a stain on their city. That Vishkar would jail or re-educate any of the favelados meant they could focus their attentions elsewhere: big bonuses, more vacation days, spending bribes from Vishkar itself.

The police didn’t care, and other high-profile citizens congratulated Vishkar (and themselves) on bringing prosperity to a once crime-ridden area. The favela dissented and was silenced.

The night they had arrested Otávio, out past a newly instilled curfew to fetch medicine for his ill sister, was his breaking point. The change the favela wished for had to come from within.

And so Lúcio changed.

He studied, schemed, spoke to people he used to avoid, dangerous ones that vovó had warned him about. He learned things he shouldn’t, traded in words, realized with the brilliance of a spark struck from a forge that information could be used as easily as credits. His short, slim stature lent him extended cover, and he had always been athletic and flexible, able to scale walls and hold tight positions for hours.

The Vishkar operation had been the first true blow against the company.

The guards were numerous, well-trained, but ignorant to the small lapses in shifts and the brush situated perfectly next to a low-hanging window that someone could wiggle through.

From scraps he had built his first disc jockey system, wiring and welding until he had something that at first only functioned but eventually functioned well. Countless nights he spent hunched over tiny bits of cracked metal and loose, fraying wires, dangerous, hungry work that nearly drove him mad. Now the same hands that had built speakers and modules created low intensity EMPs, enough to short out a camera for a few seconds, allowed him to sneak through the facility undetected. His community helped build the compound, and procuring the map had been easy with his expanding web of contacts.

In no time, Lúcio stood in the heart of facility. The tech was right where intel said it would be, the alarm systems disabled with a few deft passes at the case’s screen. He escaped as silently as he came with his prize, shiny and impossibly modern, secured at his side.

Later, in the same shanty his parents and their parents had grown up, lived and died in, he turned each piece of Vishkar tech in his hands, disassembled it, took painstaking notes in his decade old holopad, mind buzzing with possibilities and something much more powerful. He could change his favela; he could fight Vishkar.

And he would do it using their own tech.

* * *

Years later, a man studies a holopad that glows in his mismatched hands. The man had not come from nothing, had never known hunger. Yet, the man knows power, knows chaos, knows that change starts from within.

The man stares at the fuzzy, poorly lit image of someone barely out of his teens, dreadlocks fanned around his shoulders, eyes alight, stolen tech peeking out of a pack at his waist.

It had been the only evidence. The man is the only one aware of its existence after he killed his Vishkar informants.

It was not for revenge; it was not for the pure enjoyment of it. Their deaths were a practicality, one the man did not treasure but knew like the inevitability of regime change that was about to shake the world.

It would do him no good to have an agent who could be tracked from a job he did ten years ago, when he was merely a child.

His prospective agent would have to prove himself, and the man hopes the years have honed his skills like a weapon. If they did, the two would cross paths eventually; men like them always found each other.

And Akande is a patient man.

* * *

It turns out he does not have to wait long. To anyone else, it would seem nothing has changed. Talon operations continue as usual. No data breaches. No physical break-ins either, at least nothing that could not be contained and handled quietly.

It is only because he knows where to look that he notices interference. Backlogs are meticulously erased, repopulated to look undisturbed. Camera feeds repeat the same footage when he himself had walked the halls. Someone is watching him, tracking him. It is not hard to guess their identity. He had made a nuisance of himself, and Talon plays with many strings, strings that would be more useful for his target cut and tangled.

Akande plants a few emails, fake meetings he will not attend, but places where his stalker might try to ambush him.

He is more than pleased when these traps do not work. It only means he will have to try harder to trick his target into meeting him on his own terms.

* * *

Akande cancels his evening schedule when he receives the call. He feels giddy, has trouble schooling his face into something professional; he wants to smile, to laugh, a rush of satisfaction swelling in his chest.

By the time he arrives at the containment facility, his prisoner is kneeling and bound in the middle of the floor. In any other situation, he would already be beaten and bloodied, the information stripped from him like a dentist pulled teeth. Akande wanted that honor for himself, if needed.

He dismisses the guards as he studies the man on the floor, clad in blacks with accents of luminous fuchsia. Flashy, and why not? He is officially a musician and unofficially a hacker so skilled there is no need for disguising himself.

“Good evening, Lúcio.” Akande says, coming to a halt in front of him.

Lúcio lifts his head; Akande is momentarily struck by his large brown eyes and full lips. A pretty one. The photo had not done him justice.

He doesn’t say a word, just stares at him with hard eyes. Akande likes being on the receiving end of such a look.

“You are not too uncomfortable, I hope. I asked the guards to treat you kindly.” He pauses. When Lúcio doesn’t react, he continues with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve been watching your progress for a long time. We could use someone with your skillset.”

He paces then, not because he is nervous but because he wants to see how Lúcio will react. Nothing.

“Come now. Even you can see you have been bested.”

Lúcio laughs suddenly.

“You sure?” His voice is soft, infinitely mischievous. Akande knows not what to make of it. “The way I see it, you’re right where I want you.”

Akande’s expression hardens. “Oh?”

Lúcio stares up at him, smiles with white, even teeth. “See that holopad on the table? Type in my password.”

He taps in the long string of numbers Lúcio relays, unable to curb his curiosity. The screen opens, and a video begins to play.

Akande stares at himself, face in clear view as he lands two headshots with a silenced gun. The Vishkar informants crumple like dolls. The screen goes dark.

“Don’t bother destroying it. I have copies of the copies.” He can hear the grin in the man’s voice. “I wonder what would happen if I released this to the authorities as a concerned citizen?  I don’t mean to brag, but I am a celebrity. They’ll listen to me.”

Akande slowly turns, sets the holopad down without a second glance. His face says nothing.

“You can try to patch it with money, but not much you can do with that kinda evidence.” Lúcio rolls his shoulders, pops his hands out of his bindings with a few deft twists. He must’ve been working out of them this whole time. Maybe he had never been bound. “Thought you were so ahead of the game. I’ve been here all along.”

The silence falls between them as Lúcio stands, tips his chin up, even as Akande towers over him, casting Lúcio in his umbra.

“And? What stops me from killing you now?”

“If I don’t send a security code in the next hour, the video will automatically be sent to the authorities.”

Cold, churning fury burns through his guts. Bested by a mere whelp. It must show in his face, because Lúcio's expression softens somewhat.

“Hey, big guy. It’s cool. I’m interested in what you’re offering.”

Akande unclenches his hands. He had not known he was so tense.

“Name your terms.”

Lúcio shifts closer; the top of his head barely reaches Akande’s chest.

“I was hoping we could get to know each other a little first. Can’t trust anyone I’m not friends with.”

The chill settles into something warmer as Lúcio grasps his forearm and drags those small, calloused fingers along his bicep.

“And if we become friendly?” Akande bites the last word, though it is rougher than he wished it.

“I’ll help you, if I feel like it. In return, you’ll give me access to your databases.” His gaze flickers along Akande’s body. It has been decades since he felt like something to be devoured. “But first…”

* * *

“Work with me, will ya?” Lúcio says with a roll of his hips, forcing his cock deeper inside Akande’s mouth.

The hacker has his pants tugged down and his shirt rucked up, exposing a lithe, muscled body and cute, dark nipples that he twists as he stares down at Akande. Lúcio works his lower lip with his teeth, grinding into Akande while the man growls around his cock.

Lúcio, a man nearly half his age, uses him like a toy, and the cold, deeply rooted fury licks down his spine, even as he groans and hardens himself, a prominent bulge Lúcio would only have to cant his head to see. Akande’s eyelashes flutter as he sucks harder, not really wanting to make it pleasurable, but he doesn’t want to be here all night, belittled by a man who took such joy in it.

He would’ve done the very same, had their roles been reversed.

Lúcio's cock is not long enough to choke him, though it makes the shame no easier to bear as he hollows his cheeks, lips swollen and spit-slick with the abuse. He watches Lúcio's undulating body, so much smaller and slimmer than he had ever been, the way he rides his mouth in teasing, languid presses, and tries to keep his own hips still, needy and hot despite himself.

Akande wants to grasp his hips, flip the man over and claim him, show him what it meant to cross someone as powerful as himself. He would keep Lúcio bred and filled and aching, locked away and edged, only for Akande to return at night and still grant no reprieve, only listen to Lúcio sob and beg as he teased him with feather-light touches.

“I’m recording this, you know.” Lúcio moans, burying his cock to the base, the head grazing Akande’s palate and forcing him to swallow. The hacker points to a rounded earring; only then does Akande see the small light it emits, a tiny camera capturing their tryst. “Make it a good show and maybe I’ll suck you off next time.”

Akande snarls, the sound vibrating along Lúcio's cock, and the musician laughs and moans and rabbit fucks into his throat while he bites the back of his hand.

Next time.

“Y-yeah.” Lúcio babbles, voice lilting high and fluttery as he pistons into him. “I bet you have a fat cock. Not used to someone doing this to you, right? Not the great Akande Ogundimu.”

Lúcio gasps, pitches forward, thrusts faltering, erratic. Akande’s cock leaks against his underwear, pants unbearably tight. The hacker grasps Akande’s head with both hands, making him meet his harried thrusts, and his neck aches, his guts twist, but he can’t look away from Lúcio's face, flushed dark and wild, recording it as Lúcio's camera records him.

Lúcio cums when he locks eyes with him, cramming his cock as deep as he can, mashing Akande’s nose into his quivering stomach and his short, groomed pubes as the first pulse of cum warms his throat. Akande grunts, startled, shocked to find his hands have locked around Lúcio's waist, keeping him pinned as the man writhes and gasps and loads Akande’s stomach with cum. He continues sucking, even as Lúcio tries to tug away, swears when he keeps his hot mouth around him, licking and massaging the oversensitive flesh.

“Hey, s-stop. I get it. Shit—!!”

Only when he feels nails on his scalp does he allow Lúcio to reel back. Akande gasps, then smiles, even when the final droplets of cum paint his lips. He revels in how unbalanced Lúcio looks with his clothes wrinkled and face flushed. Akande readjusts himself in his expensive slacks, and the musician quickly tucks his spent cock into his pants as he tries to regain composure.

“I trust that was enough for us to become acquainted.” Akande says, wincing inwardly at how rough his voice sounds, raw from fucking, heavy with unspent lust.

Lúcio turns those large eyes to him again, clicks his tongue, though he smiles bashfully as he nods.

“Yeah, that’ll do for now.” He glances up from the floor, stares at him through thick lashes. “So, we gotta deal?”

Akande pauses, then nods, chuckling.

“I believe we do.”


End file.
